In a Flash
by CasusFere
Summary: A collection of flash-fiction one-shots, two hours or less. Multiple characters/pairings, warnings at the beginning of each chapter.
1. Awakening

He woke up on a battlefield.

This wasn't unusual or worrisome; he liked fighting. It was in his core programing to fight. There were echos to that thought, _to maim, to conquer, to lie, to endure._ He paid the echos no mind. They weren't unusual, either. They were as much a part of him as his hands, his fuel pumps.

He wasn't sure where he was, or what had happened before he awoke and found himself here. Or rather, he knew too much of how he'd come to be here, and he was equally certain of all five contradictory memories. It didn't matter, really. Everything that came before meant very little, like individual parts meant very little before they were fitted together to become a weapon. All that mattered was the solid _oneness_ of the weapon, each part working together until they were indistinguishable from the others in the function of the device. None more important than the others, and without any one of them, the weapon would be rendered useless.

The comparison was pointless to him. He was whole. He was one. He was indestructible in his power. There were enemies around him. He would destroy the Autobots - the echos came again, only one this time but somehow more determined, as if all the echos were united in this once - _destroy everyone in our way._ Much of him wanted to turn and find Megatron, to challenge the commander on the spot, but he could not.

_The chip,_ he thought, and cursed it.

He wished he could simply rip it out and be done with it. But he could not. All he could do was take out his anger and frustration on the enemies before him.

_That one,_ echoed in his head, excited. His optics focused on _that one,_ an Autobot that meant nothing to him,_ that he_ _wanted so much._ Glee mixed with bloodthirsty rage and annoyed disgust, tempered by a calculating approval and finally a sense of resignation. He was decided.

Bruticus struck.


	2. Hunger

Warning: Violence. Implied sexual situation. And implications of vore and/or beastiality, depending on how you view Abominus  
Pairing: Abominus/Sixshot  
Universe: IDW/G1  
Summary: Abominus is awake and hungry. 90 minute flashfic.  
A/N: Another poke into a combiner's head, this time with Abominus. It started with Terrorcons crushing on Sixshot, then the thought of hey, they ALL want Sixshot, and their combined form would actually be just about the same size - oh, wait, their combined form is Abominus. . ... I can still write this. And then **ultharkitty** encouraged me. Tsk tsk.

* * *

The last connection snapped into place. The beast lifted its head, looking for the prey that had to be there. It existed, and it killed. The two things went hand-in-hand, never one without the other.

Air cycled through the vents in its legs, and it smelled the air, searching for the living things, any living things...

_Dirt. Smoke. Energon and spilled coolant. Jet exhaust. _They weren't words in his processors, but whole concepts, the smell and taste and touch of them all the same.

_Movement. Vibration of steps heard in his feet, growl of engines heard in his hands and chest. _

Abominus roared and charged.  
_  
Claws tearing, hot fluids running over his hands, optics flickering out, scream of mech and metal._

It was more than bloodlust, more than programming or function or even need. It was everything he was, his entire existence, an overriding, never-ending _hunger _that could never be fully fed.

_Silence, his own engines and dripping fluids and silence. Mud and energon and death. And him._

There was no differentiation between the smell of the other mech and the sound and sight. It was all the same to Abominus, a whole and complete thing. And like Abominus, he existed to kill, the thought of killing and death personified.

Abominus looked at him, smelled him, _touched _him, and he _hungered. _

"What are you doing?" Sixshot asked as Abominus approached him, his tone mildly curious and utterly unafraid. Fear was not part of the concept that was Sixshot. The words filtered through Abominus' five CPUs, emerging as the meaning behind the words.

Speech emerged as nothing but an incomprehensible snarl, too limited for the depth of what he needed to express. So Abominus answered honestly in the manner that a beast incapable of the thinking needed to lie or avoid, reaching out for Sixshot. He hungered for this the same way he hungered for killing, a spark-deep need that it never occurred to him to fight.

Sixshot stood firm, not flinching away from the claws that trailed so surprisingly lightly down his battlemask, coming to rest on his chest.

Abominus growled with the effort of forcing his needs into the words the other could understand.

"Abominus... want Sixshot."

Surprise showed in Sixshot's optics, and he cocked his head, considering. Slowly, Sixshot's hand came up to touch the gestalt, taking Abominus' face gently but firmly, with no sign of hesitation or fear. His other hand undid his battlemask. He leaned forward, pulling Abominus towards him with careful and implacable strength.

Then Sixshot kissed him hard, giving the gestalt an entirely new sensation to add to the memory of scent and sound and touch and death that was Sixshot.


	3. Superion Online

Warning: None  
Character: Superion  
Universe: G1  
Summary: Snippet scene playing with Superion's POV and a different gestalt mindset. Flashfic, ~45 minutes.

* * *

Battle raged around him, but he was apart from it. Five sets of sensors merged into one, fed through five processors and analyzed, five suggested courses of action evaluated for which best served his two primary directives.

Destroy the Decepticons. Protect the Autobots.

Someone was shouting orders at him; who was immaterial. His targeting systems tagged the speaker as an Autobot, any information beyond that was superfluous, and as such, was a distraction and discarded. "Superion! Take their left flank and provide cover while we hit the weapon!"

Superion ran this plan through his processors, assessing its effectiveness versus the plan he had decided on. Whoever charged the Decepticon weapon would be in danger of deactivation before they reached the emplacement. The plan was less likely to succeed than his own, and would not facilitate either of his directives.

"Negative," he rumbled. He didn't bother to explain his plan to the Autobot - explaining would not increase battle effectiveness, and therefore was superfluous. He merely strode forward, ignoring the shouting behind him, and powered up his weapons. He was the Autobot most likely to penetrate the Decepticon defenses, the least likely to be destroyed, simple as that. Teamwork, orders, permission were immaterial. Destroy the Decepticons, protect the Autobots. Simple. Effective. Efficient.


	4. For the Sake of Destruction

Warning: Genocide  
Characters: Onslaught, Hun-Grr, Vortex, Swindle  
Universe:G1  
Prompt: **tf_speedwriting**, Iron Maiden's Two Minutes to Midnight.  
Summary: Onslaught disagrees with the Terrorcons' battle strategy. Flashfic, one hour.

* * *

"Onslaught," Hun-Grr growled.

Onslaught glanced up from the battle maps in front of him, cooling meeting Hun-Grr's gaze - or at least, the gaze of the head closest to him. The one that wasn't busy eating... whatever it was. "Yes?"

"As soon as the objective is secured, fall back to the extraction point. We will insure that they are in no condition to pursue." There was a malevolent joy in Hun-Grr's fanged grin.

Onslaught did not let his disapproval and disgust show. He was perfectly familiar with the Terrorcon's version of "insuring they will not pursue." Death. Destruction on a scale that went past military necessity, even becoming detrimental to the long-range goals. Onslaught did not consider himself to be sentimental or merciful or particularly easy to disturb. He was a Decepticon, and perfectly capable of horrendous acts of violence and cruelty when it suited his needs. But the Terrorcons gleefully crossed boundaries of even Decepticons. They killed, maimed, and consumed in ways that disgusted even those, like Onslaught, who were used to the deprivations of Vortex and his fellow interrogators. And it was just so utterly _pointless. _They destroyed resources that could be used by the Decepticons for no other reason than it was _fun._

"A solid plan," Onslaught began, choosing his words carefully. Disgusting beast or not, Hun-Grr outranked him here. "But perhaps a quieter solution would work to our advantage. If we use stealth, the populace will not be able to identify who attacked them-"

"Your way takes too long," Hun-Grr growled.

"If the defenders can't identify us, we can delay their ability to organize a counterattack from another base, allowing us the time to create a battleground more advantageous-"

"We don't care, Onslaught!" Hun-Grr interrupted again. "These ones will die. Then the rest will die. If you'd pull your head out of your strategy books, you'd realize that we're not _fighting _them, we're _killing _them. All of them. Every last one down to the last mewling spawnling."

"There is little advantage in ruling a dead rock," Onslaught said, keeping his voice even, even as his fists clenched under the table. "Megatron can make more use of intact infrastructure."

Hun-Grr snorted, swallowing the last of his meal and turning both heads to sneer at Onslaught. "If Megatron wanted to rule this planet, he wouldn't have sent us to destroy it."

x-x-x

"A waste," Onslaught said out loud, rubble crunching under his feet.

"Got a sudden liking for itty bitty buildings?" Vortex chirped, landing on a half-demolished house. "Ain't all that useful when we don't fit in the doors."

"Not just the buildings," Onslaught said, nudging at a mangled body with his foot. "Everything."

"Ohhh," Vortex drew the word out, nodding sagely. "So you're getting into xenophilia, then?"

Onslaught spared him an irritated glance. "Knock it off, Vortex. The locals could have been useful as a subservient state, allowing us to dedicate more resources to our actual mission of defeating the Autobots. This-" he motioned to the destruction around him, "This is all just a waste of potential, destroyed for no other reason than they wanted to."

"Personally, I think it's a great reason," Vortex said cheerfully. "You shoulda circled back with me. Watchin' the Terrorcons go to town is _hilarious. _And then they let Abominus out in the middle of the city, and booyah, everything just kinda started explodin'."

"Yeah, that don't make me regret passing it up at all," Swindle said from where he was rummaging through the rubble. "Sorry, 'Tex, but some of us don't think buzzin' giant killer mechs who want to flatten us to be the best way to spend an afternoon. Tell ya what, though, you strap a nice high-resolution camera to your landing gear and get a good-quality video of the destruction next time. There's a few crazy slaggers who pay good money for that sorta close-up slaughter footage. "

"Is there anything you can't turn into a profit?" Vortex asked curiously.

"I'm sure there is," Swindle answered, just as cheerful. "But I ain't found it yet. Help me load us some of these intact pieces. If Hun-Grr and them keep up like this, there's gonna be a big opening in the market for cultural artifacts from here." He grinned. "Off-world natives gotta have a bit of the dead homeworld, y'know."

Onslaught tuned them out, watching a building collapse in the distance to the laughter of the Terrorcons. "Such a _waste," _he muttered.


	5. End of Days

Warning: None  
Universe: G1  
Summary: Vortex and his team face the punishment for a failed attempt at overthrowing Shockwave. Flash fic, 1 hour. **tf_speedwriting** prompt: End of Days

* * *

This wasn't happening. It _couldn't_ be happening! Vortex struggled against the restraints, against the Mayhems dragging him down the corridor. They'd screwed up, they'd failed - No! There was a plan, there was _always_ a plan. Onslaught had something in mind, he _had_ to.

He planted his feet, but his captors were larger than him, stronger and with better leverage. They hadn't bothered to say anything to Vortex, not even to taunt him, and it was unnerving the helicopter. He'd be okay. They'd get out of here. Onslaught had a plan. They'd escape, go underground for a while, then come back stronger than ever. They _would_. It was a mantra he kept repeating to himself as he fought every step of the way, processor scrambling for a hint of what it was that Onslaught had planned.

Whatever it was, it had to be a good one, because Vortex was coming up blank. Of course it was complicated, it had to be to get around Shockwave. He kept telling himself that as the Mayhems dragged him into the room at the end of the corridor. Onslaught would be here. They'd make it out. He wasn't going to panic.

A familiar shade of teal catches his gaze as he's shoved inside, staggering before being hauled upright again. Onslaught! Vortex feels a brief moment of relief. Onslaught was here, everything was going to be -

Onslaught wasn't moving, sprawled out on one of the tables, chestplate gaping open. Vortex felt his fuel pumps seize up. That couldn't be, Onslaught was getting them out of here, it was a trick, he was faking it...

One of the techs was placing something in a box, essential parts that Vortex refused to recognize. The other shoved Onslaught off the table, letting him fall limply on a sprawled pile of bodies. Familiarly shaped bodies, a lolling head with dark optics - but that wasn't right, Swindle wasn't _grey._ Those weren't Brawl's treads. They weren't- they couldn't-

Hands grabbed Vortex, hauling him up onto the table and strapping him down, gripping tight no matter how much he struggled. Fingers were prodding at his helm, prying open his chestplate. His vocalizer whined. Why wasn't Onslaught doing something? This wasn't happening! Onslaught's plans were too good for this, Swindle could talk his way out of anything, _this couldn't be happening!_

Darkness.


	6. Out of Time

Warnings: Angst  
Characters: Combaticons  
Universe: G1  
Prompt: Running out of time  
Summary: The Combaticon's coup has failed, and Shockwave's troops are closing in. Flashfiction, 30 minute doing-laundry fic.

* * *

Everything was falling apart.

Onslaught stared at the comm unit, feeling his carefully laid plans crumbling around him. Everything had gone so well, moved so smoothly - and then with no warning, it was all coming apart. What had he overlooked? Some tiny detail, a thread that started everything unravelling?

"Onslaught?"

Onslaught turned to find Vortex hovering behind him, an unaccustomed air of uncertainty about him, rotors twitching and twisting with agitation.

"What to we do now?" Vortex asked. Behind the helicopter, the rest of the team waited for his answer, all looking at him with a strange sort of desperate hope.

They trusted him. Onslaught looked away. He'd gathered them together, forced them to become a team in more than just name. Each one was hand-picked, the very best, independent and - with the exception of Brawl - brilliant. He'd broke them down and put them back together, re-assembling to fit his needs, his plans. He'd made them trust him, and in the process, made them dependent on him.

Maybe that was his mistake. If they hadn't put so much trust in his plan, maybe they would have seen the breakdown coming. Maybe each of them would have plotted their own escape route. Maybe they would have had the sense to run when everything fell apart, instead of looking at him for the next step, hoping that he would tell them that he'd already planned for this. They'd thrown themselves completely into his cause, for the first time in their lives not holding anything back, and he'd failed them.

"Onslaught?" Vortex said again, sounding strangely small and helpless. "What do we do?"

What could they do? As soon as he'd heard Shockwave's voice come back over the radio, he'd known they'd failed. The plot hadn't worked, and the commander had gotten clear of the blast. Everything had depended on his being out of the way. And Shockwave was coming for them.

A soft scrape, then a tentative touch on his arm. Why hadn't they ran? They had to know that it was over. Onslaught opened his mouth to order them to flee, but the words stuck in his vocalizer.

What had gone wrong? Everything had been perfect. He'd thrown everything he had into the plan. Every resource, every contact, every piece of blackmail and intimidation. Had he simply reached too high?

The howl of engines outside cut into his thoughts. Around him, his team shifted uneasily.

"C'mon, Onslaught," Swindle said nervously. "We're running out of time."

Brawl growled from the window. "There's a fraggin' lot of them, and they're headin' straight this way."

"What do we do?" Vortex repeated again.

Onslaught glanced over to Blast Off, slumped silently against the wall. Blast Off lifted his head to meet his commander's gaze, a tired acceptance in his posture. They were beat, and the shuttle knew it as well as he did.

"Ons?" Swindle asked, real fear creeping into his voice. "You gotta backup plan, right?"

"No," Onslaught answered softly.

"Frag," Vortex whispered.

Onslaught reached for his rifle, even as he tried desperately to think of some way out of this for them, some way to save them if he couldn't save himself-

The lower level doors gave way with a muffled _thump_ that sent reverberations through their feet.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

They were out of time.


	7. Frustration

Warning: Swearing  
Characters: Brawl, Blast Off  
Prompt: Envy  
Summary: Brawl and Blast Off, on an aborted mission.

* * *

"Blast Off! Return to base!" Megatron's voice barked through the comm.

"Acknowledged," Blast Off said calmly, tilting his wings back towards the planet and preparing for re-entry.

"What?" Brawl protested. "We barely broke atmosphere! Why the frag are we turning back?"

"Orders," Blast Off said, tone still cool and unaffected.

"Stupid fragging orders! He sends us up, then turns around and orders us straight back!" He flopped back in the seat, folding his arms in disgust. "Waste of fragging time!" He scowled at the console in front of him. "And you, just doin' everything he fraggin' says like a fraggin' lapdog."

Blast Off didn't bother looking up the human term. Obviously, the tank spent too much time around Swindle. "The programming requires us to obey, Brawl. There is no point in fighting it."

He was right, and Brawl knew it. "Yeah, well, stop bein' so calm about it," Brawl grumbled. "It's fraggin' annoyin'."

Blast Off didn't respond, numbers flashing over his monitors too fast for Brawl to read, much less understand, as the shuttle made the thousand tiny course adjustments needed. He assumed they made sense to Blast Off, but to him, they were nothing but pretty flashing lights.

It wasn't fair. Blast Off knew all this numbers stuff, and seemed like he could take any sort of order without more than a twitch, while Brawl felt like his processor was going through a grater every time the programming kicked in to force him to do whatever Megatron told him to. And the shuttle didn't even seem to realize how lucky he was, with his super-fast processor and his wings and his easy acceptance of everything.

None of them did. Onslaught and his tactics and how he could shove all that anger down and lock it away, and his weird ability to guess what other people were going to do. Swindle and his sneaky ability to think himself out of any trouble, and Vortex, who was worse than Blast Off because he wasn't just calm about his orders, he was downright _cheerful._ Nothing ever seemed to get to him, and Brawl didn't think he'd ever seen the helicopter angry.

Not like Brawl, who didn't seem to feel anything _except_ angry these days. And all that rage build up under his plating, with him unable to take it out on Megatron because of the stupid programming. It made him angry just thinking about the programming, which made him angry at Blast Off because the fragging shuttle didn't _get it_. Brawl kicked the console in front of him.

"Stop that," Blast Off said, annoyed.

That was better. The fragging shuttle could feel some of his frustration. Brawl kicked the console again, harder, just to make Blast Off angry. _See how he likes it._

"If you don't knock that off, I will eject you here, and watch as your body burns to nothing during re-entry," Blast Off told him. "It will hurt. A great deal. And then you will be dead."

Brawl hunched into the chair. Stupid fragging shuttle and his stupid fragging faster processor.


	8. Engaging the Enemy

Warning: Non-explicit sexual situations, a serious lack of seriousness.  
Characters: Wreckers, Vortex, Onslaught  
Universe: G1? IDW? IDK?  
Summary: Vortex does a little distracting. Crack flashfic.

* * *

Some days, things just went like that, Vortex reflected, staring down the barrel of Springer's gun. Around him, the other Wreckers leveled high-powered weaponry of various sizes at his head. "Er... hi?" he tried, lifting his hands in surrender.

His comm chose that moment to crackle. _"Heads up, guys,"_ Swindle said. _"Dirge says they spotted Wreckers headin' this way._

Vortex had to restrain himself from facepalming.

_"Keep an optic out for them," _Onslaught ordered, unnecessarily. _"Engage in harassment maneuvers only, we're just buying time for the Constructicons to clear out."_

Some days, Vortex could just shoot his teammates.

"Well. Vortex. Got anything to say for yourself?" Springer asked, smirking.

"Yeah," Vortex answered, rotors twitching irritably. "I could be interfacin' right now with a hot set of wings, and instead, I get to be out in a the back end of nowhere in a slaggin' canyon with you guys." He huffed. "I think you owe me a good 'face," he added, just because he could.

There was a choked sound from somewhere to his right, and the surprise on Springer's face was at least a _little_ gratifying to see. Then Springer shrugged. "Why not?"

"Springer, you're not seriously considering-" started the big Wrecker off to the left. "Nevermind. You are."

Vortex blinked. Wait, what? He was? A grin started to form behind his battlemask. _Awesome._

"Considering it, not so much," Springer said, agreeably. He subspaced his rifle. "Doing it, sure." A quick step brought him right up to Vortex, and he pushed the Combaticon back into the rocky cliff side behind him.

"... I can't believe this is happening," one of the Wreckers muttered, sounding torn disbelief and awe, but Vortex didn't care to figure out who, not with Springer's mouth _there_ and his hands...

_"Hey, Ons, I found your Wreckers,"_ he radioed. _"Got 'em AH!"_ He squirmed as Springer's fingers found his rotor assembly and went straight for the swashplate. _"Uh, got 'em engaged."_

_"Vortex, what's your location? I'm sending backup-"_

_"No!"_ Alright that came out more as a squeak, but frag, there were _bearings_ under there, and Springer knew just how to _twist..._ _"Um, negative? Ee! That's ticklish!_

There was a moment of dead silence over the radio.

_"...Tell me you aren't doing what I think you're doing," _Onslaught groaned finally.

_"I'm engaging the - ohhhhh - um, the enemy. And they're engaged. Very engaged. You might say extremely engaged, in fact. Hey, you think you could hold off on the backup for a few breems?"_

_"VORTEX!"_


	9. The End

Warning: Character death, angst  
Characters: Vortex, Combaticons, unnamed Autobots.  
Universe: G1  
Summary: The war is over. Flash fic, one hour

* * *

The first time his world fell apart, Vortex had panicked, unable to believe that things had gone so wrong, that Onslaught couldn't think his way out of it or that Swindle could talk himself free. He'd refused to accept it, even as he'd been strapped to a table under Shockwave's unblinking optic, personality components stripped and locked away for millions of years.

The second time, he hadn't been surprised. He'd seen the end coming, and this time he'd known that Onslaught couldn't stop it. He'd lost faith, somewhere in the millennia of fighting and hiding and struggling to survive despite everything, in Onslaught, in the Combaticons' ability to make it through, no matter what the odds.

And he would have to have been blind to not see the end coming for the Decepticons. The war had been over for centuries; they had just refused to admit it. The empire was gone, Megatron dead, Galvatron, dead, all those who had tried to step up after them, dead. Megatron wouldn't even recognize the rag-tag guerrilla fighters left wearing his brand.

"Get up," the Autobot guard growled. They weren't the Autobots of millions of years ago, when Optimus Prime had strove for peace and freedom. They'd changed just as the Decepticons had, corrupted by their own power. He supposed that it could be considered their fault; after all, the best of the Autobots, the ones that had gained, well, if not his respect, then at least Onslaught's, were dead at the weapons of the Decepticons.

He struggled to his feet, a prospect made difficult by the restraints, and moved forward with a minimum of prodding. These Autobots were nothing like the ones he remembered; they'd had millions of years to learn cruelty from the Decepticons and they'd learned it well, combining it with the totalitarian oppression that had sparked the Decepticon rebellion so long ago. They didn't allow deviation from their laws or orders, especially not from a Decepticon prisoners.

"Hey, hey! Easy!"

A familiar voice made Vortex's head turn, step slowing to watch Swindle stumble out of another transport, Blast Off behind him, Brawl being prodded out last. A glance to the other side showed Onslaught, back straight, somehow managing to keep an air of dignity despite the restraints.

His guard gave a yank on the lead connected to his own restraints, and a current made Vortex jump, in surprise more than pain. "Hurry up!" the guard barked.

Vortex looked down at him, but ambled forward obediently. He'd tried to break loose of the restraints already and failed. He'd wait for a better opportunity, then teach the upstart Autobot a thing or two about pain.

He was pushed down to his knees, his wrist restraints secured to a waiting snap on the floor. He looked up, past the Autobot on the podium, to an open ceiling. A blue sky. It reminded him of Earth, back when Megatron was still alive.

"Decepticon Vortex, you have been charged with and found guilty of war crimes including but not limited to-"

Vortex tuned him out, focusing on the soft clouds above. Not quite the same as Earth, but close enough. He hadn't really minded the planet, for all the mud and organics. He hadn't liked Megatron much, and he _really_ hadn't liked the loyalty programming, but he'd been to worse places, before and since. He wondered what it was like now.

"-As prospects of rehabilitation are non-existent-"

Rehabilitation? Ha. The word was _slavery._ He'd seen what they considered to be acceptable behavior for a 'reformed Decepticon criminal,' and he'd rather be dead, thanks.

"-this court renders the sentence of immediate deactivation." At the edge of his vision, Vortex could see him motion to a guard, no, not a guard, an executioner, he realized. To either side, his gestaltmates raised voices in protest, then cried out in pain at the _snap_ of the restraint currents.

Vortex stared into the barrel of the executioner's gun, listened to Onslaught's roar of rage and denial, and did the only thing he could.

He laughed.


	10. If We Are to Die

Warning: Possible character death, open-ended  
Characters: Springer  
Universe: G1  
Summary: The Wreckers get in a tight spot with no way out. Flash fic, one hour.

* * *

The explosion was powerful enough to shake the walls of the command center.

"That's it, then," one of the mechs whispered, staring down at the display screen in despair. "The shuttle's gone. We're trapped."

Another's voice rose on the heels of the first, shrill with fear. "Their forward brigade is regrouping! They're getting ready for an assault!"

A low mutter ran through the mechs huddled around the makeshift fortifications. Several slumped in chairs or just sat down on the floor, defeat written clearly in their posture.

Springer stood in the middle of it all, fingers absently turning over a portable comm unit, silently absorbing the news. He'd been expecting both - they were badly outnumbered, and the position was barely defensible under the best of circumstances. Holding the Decepticons off long enough to mount an evacuation was the best they could have expected, but unfortunately for them, the Decepticons knew that as well and had struck to cut off their only escape route.

They were not going to make it off this planet alive. Springer accepted that; he was a Wrecker. Sooner or later, their luck always ran out.

_'Til all are one._ It wasn't a frightening thought, more like that first glimpse of Cybertron through the forward viewscreen after a long tour on the front lines. Relief, warmth, but tinged with the sadness of all that had been lost.

He wished he could see Arcee one last time. Not to say goodbye - they parted every time knowing that this could be their last moment together - but just to see her. He knew she'd watch out for Roddy, and he hoped Rodimus wouldn't blame himself for sending them out here.

Time seemed to slow, the world seeming so much more sharply in focus, feeling the warm metal of the comm unit in his hands, the faint vibration of the footsteps and movement of the mechs around him, everything so bright and alive, if only for a little while longer.

The Decepticons were waiting for the rest of their troops to rejoin the main group. Soon as the outlying squads arrived, they would break down the fortifications and take the base. The Autobots' lives could measured in breems. Roadbuster turned and caught Springer's gaze, the knowledge of the impending assault and inevitable conclusion clear in the grim set of his shoulders. Beside him, Whirl leaned against a burned-out control panel, arms folded, lost in his own thoughts.

They were good mechs, not just his people, but all of the Autobots clustered in the makeshift bunker. He'd ended up in command by default when the last barrage has destroyed the rear control post and the commander with it, but none of them had faltered. They'd thrown themselves into his orders and none of them deserved to die like this.

Not like this...

"Roadbuster," Springer said quietly. "Pass the word. Tell everyone to grab their weapons and get ready to move."

All around him, tired and dim optics looked up, hoping despite everything that he would find some way to save them. It hurt, their faith burning in his spark. The possibility of making it out was so tiny as to be non-existent, but he had to give them the chance. At the very least, they wouldn't have to suffer the hell of huddling here and waiting for death to come to them.

"We're bracing for the attack?" a voice ventured, sounding young and unfamiliar.

"No," Springer said with a sharp grin. "We're the ones attacking."


	11. Analysis

Warning: None  
Summary: Ficlet continuing my little exercise of attempting to get inside each combiner's head. Short, half-hour breaktime ficlet.

A/N- Phew, uploading marathon over for now. These are not the only flash fics I've been doing lately - there are at least four R-rated ficlets and one NC-17 fic not posted here on my LJ. Link's in the profile as my homepage, for the curious.

* * *

_Statistical analysis complete. Course of action has an approximate probability of success of fifty-eight percent, increasing to sixty-three percent if enacted within a time window of approximately three breems, superior to alternative actions by twelve percent or greater. _

"It would be best to engage the Decepticons on the west side of the canyon," Computron informed the Autobots below him. "This has the highest degree of probability of success."

Kup looked up, frowning. "How you figure?"

_Analyzing the intent of informational request. Cross referencing with known psychological profile of Autobot designation: Kup. Probability that Autobot designation: Kup requires a comprehensive explanation of the process leading to conclusion: eleven percent. Probability of requirement of a summarized explanation of process leading to conclusion: forty-two percent. Probability of question being rhetorical and indicative of sarcasm: forty-three percent. Probability of other meanings behind informational request: approximately four percent._

_Proposition, originating from CPU designation: Lightspeed: Providing explanation would reduce chances of success by delaying Autobot units past the window of opportunity. Analyzing probability-_

Waving a hand, Kup turned away in disgust. "Aw, forget it. Gear up Autobots, we're movin' out. Decepticons won't wait forever." He picked up his rifle, grumbling as he did. "Why the frag did I ask for a coherent answer out of a combiner, anyway?"

_Analyzing probability of statement being an informational request or rehertorical-_


	12. Even Angels Fall

Rating: PG-13  
Warning: implications of non-con of the mind control variety  
Characters: Mindwipe, Protectobots, Slingshot  
Universe: G1  
Prompt: **tf_speedwriting**: video prompt, one of those strange men's body spray commercials. :)  
Summary: Mindwipe targets Hot Spot

* * *

"Protectobots! Transform and comb-" A dark shape dropped out of the sky to land heavily in front of Hot Spot, glowing red optics catching his and making the words falter in his vocalizer.

It felt like he'd been dipped in liquid nitrogen, his joints frozen, and Hot Spot had a feeling like he'd shatter if he so much as moved. The pinpoints of red light seemed to expand until blazing crimson was all he could see.

_You don't want to do that,_ came the thought in his processor, and he found that no, he didn't. He didn't want to... to... what had he been doing? He couldn't quite remember. It wasn't important.

_Come here._ Well, naturally. Funny - he'd felt frozen in place a moment ago, but moving forward just seemed the most normal thing in the world.

Someone was yelling something... _Shh._ Oh. Must not have been anything important.

_Do you love me?_ What a ridiculous question. Of course he did. But that wasn't right, none of this was right-

"Who are you?" he asked, half in awe, half in horror.

_My name is Mindwipe. But you may call me Master."_ Dark hands traced fingertips along the edges of his helm, and Hot Spot shuddered, flinching away, the sheer _wrongness_ of it making his tanks churn-

_Love me_. Hot Spot leaned into the touch, nuzzling at his master's hands. He sank to his knees, optics shuttering, while behind him, faint and unimportant, someone screamed his name.

x-x-x

"Get away from him!" Blades hit the ground running, detaching a rotor to use as a sword. The Decepticon was too close to Hot Spot to risk a shot. Streetwise was right behind him, Groove and First Aid coming up from the side.

"You don't want to do that," the Decepticon said blandly, producing a weapon and putting the muzzle casually against the side of Hot Spot's head. Blades' pump clenched in horror as Hot Spot sighed and leaned into the barrel. "Stop there."

Blades stumbled to a halt, looking desperately over at the others for some idea, some hint of what they should do now, but they looked as frightened and uncertain as he felt. He steeled his expression. He had to be the steady one here.

"Let him go," he said, voice harsh.

"Why would I do that? He loves me," the Decepticon said with cruel amusement. "Don't you, Hot Spot?"

"Yes, master," Hot Spot said, with a tone of awed reverence that Blades had never heard from him. It made him want to throw up.

"Let him go before I rip your face off and feed it to you," Blades growled. Jet engines howled above him, but he didn't bother to look. He had more immediate concerns than seekers.

"I think not," the Decepticon countered. "I think I shall keep him. And you-"

"Look away!" First Aid called. "Blades! Don't meet his gaze!"

What the...? Blades dropped his optics, focusing on Hot Spot instead. "What the frag, 'Aid?"

The Decepticon made a vexed noise, forestalling any explanation from First Aid. He twisted, careful to keep Hot Spot between him and the Protectobots, his gun lifting as he turned. The muzzle leveled at First Aid's face.

Streetwise shouted in alarm, but he couldn't get a clear shot with Hot Spot in the way. Blades cursed and lunged forward, knowing even as he did so that he was too far away.

There was a flash of light, burning past Blades' shoulder, then the Decepticon was stumbling back, dropping the weapon from useless fingers. Hot Spot slumped, bringing a hand up to his head.

Then the Decepticon was gone in a flash of dark wings, leaving a splattered trail of energon behind

Blades skidded to a stop, blinking at the spot the Decepticon had been as the others rushed past him to Hot Spot. He turned sharply at the sound of someone landing behind him, rotor-sword snapping up.

"Hey, easy there," Slingshot said, pushing the blade away from his face.

Blades looked from his brothers to Slingshot and the rifle cradled casually in the jet's arms. Oh. He snapped the rotor back into the assembly, blowing exhaust. "Thanks," he said quietly, without his usual bravado.

"Doing my job," Slingshot answered, just as quietly. His optics drifted to the Protectobots huddled around their leader. "You should get over there," he added. "They're going to need you."

Blades nodded jerkily. "Yeah." But he hesitated, wanting to say something more, make Slingshot understand how much he meant it, what the sniper's shot had saved them from, but the words wouldn't come.

"Thanks," he muttered again instead, feeling utterly inadequate, but the quirk of Slingshot's lips let him know that the Aerialbot heard and understood.

He turned away and ran to rejoin his brothers.


	13. Understandable Misunderstanding

Title: A Very Understandable Misunderstanding  
Rating: PG-13  
Warnings: plenty of embarrassment, misunderstandings, and snark  
Universe: G1  
Characters: Blades/Slingshot, Hot Spot, First Aid, Groove, Streetwise  
Summary: Blades thinks they know, but they don't, except Streetwise, who thinks Blades knows they don't know, Slingshot knew the entire time but thought it was too funny to say anything, and the Aerialbots know nothing at all. Confused? So are the Protectobots.  
A/N: This is what I was doing instead of writing out diagrams in Database Analysis today.

* * *

"Blades," Hot Spot called, sounding ominously serious.

Blades turned, frowning. "What's up?" Had something happened? He should have felt something- except he'd been blocking them, he remembered suddenly. He reopened the gestalt bond, quickly checking over his team; Streetwise was quiet as usual, First Aid worried, Groove gave off the feeling that he thought everyone was overreacting again, and Hotspot... Blades winced. Hot Spot radiated grim determination layered with heavy disappointment, all directed straight at Blades.

"I need to talk to you," Hot Spot said, giving no hints as he ushered Blades into an unused conference room.

"What's going on?" Blades demanded, as soon as the door closed behind them. Frag it, he wasn't good at waiting, not when something was upsetting his team, and _especially_ when Hot Spot seemed to blame _him _for it.

"Slingshot ended up in medical this morning," Hot Spot said severely. "Would you know why?"

Guilt leaked through to the gestalt bond before he could lock it down. Embarrassed, he shuffled his rotors and blocked the bond again. No way his team needed to pick up on the echoes of the circumstances that had resulted in Slingshot jamming a baffle against the edge of a berth.

_... Slingshot, laughing and swearing at him, nevermind that they'd ended up there because the Aerialbot had decided to grab him by the rotor hub and yank, leaving them in a pile against the berth, Slingshot's fingers still deep in his rotory assembly …_

His plating felt over-warm. _Frag _he didn't need to leak this to his team.

Hot Spot's frown deepened, obviously catching that flash of guilt. "Blades," he said, sounding tired. "They've been back on base for a day. _One_ day. And you and Slingshot can't keep it together for even _one day_?"

He seriously wasn't be lectured about this, was he? Blades could have died from embarrassment on the spot. The Protectobots shared fragging near everything, but it was just mortifying to have Hot Spot get involved in his relationship with Slingshot. And frag, Slingshot instigated-

"I can't have you two fighting everytime we're all on base together," Hot Spot continued.

Blades froze up. _Huh?_

"If you really can't just ignore him, just walk away-"

Hot Spot thought they'd been _fighting._

"Did Slingshot tell you-" he managed, torn between mortification and hysterical giggling. _Frag_, he knew that he kept the bond closed whenever he was with Slingshot, and sure, he didn't really talk about what he and Slings got up to, but they were both private mechs and he'd always got the impression that they didn't really approve of the two of them. He always just _assumed_his team knew.

"He told Aid to mind his own business," Hot Spot said with severe disapproval. "But it doesn't take a genius to figure out what happened. Especially since you have paint streaks on your arm." He pointed. "You may both be white, but the tints don't match."

Blades looked down at his arm, surprised to see that yes, he _did _have a long streak of white that didn't qite match, a bit brighter and newer than his own paint. "And so you thought we were fighting?" he asked, a little strangled.

"I know you don't like him-"

That was too much. Blades couldn't hold back the mildly hysterical snicker. Now Hot Spot was staring at him in concern, something that just seemed to make the whole thing so much worse. "Primus! You thought we were _fighting._" Blades sat down in the nearest chair, dissolving into helpless laughter.

"But-" Hot Spot started, confused. "Then what-" He blinked at Blades. The helicopter offered his best slag-eating grin. "Oh. _Oh._" Hot Spot covered his face with a hand and coughed.

Blades re-opened the bond, pushing past the flood of embarrassment radiating from Hot Spot. _'You guys guys seriously thought Slings and I were fighting?'_

_'You aren't?'_ Groove asked, surprised, then _'Ohhh...'_

_'What?' _First Aid asked, confused.

_'Blades likes baffles,' _Streetwise said dryly.

_'Wait - you knew, Streetwise?' _Hot Spot asked.

_'Hey, I told you to drop it,'_Streetwise said.

_'Why didn't you just tell us-'_

_'Figured if they wanted you to know, they'd tell you,' _Streetwise said placidly.

Blades shifted. _'...I really thought you already knew,' _he admitted.

_'How would we? You keep blocking us.'_A muted sense of hurt accompanied First Aid's words.

_'I thought you really didn't approve...' _Blades said apologetically.

_'Of you __**fighting**__,' _First Aid pointed out.

_'Hey, Streetwise knew!' _Blades knew he shouldn't be getting defensive about this, but he couldn't help it.

_'The Streetwise keeps his own council,'_ Streetwise said. _'Besides, __**I**__ thought that __**you**__ knew that they __**didn't**__ know.'_

_'Hey guys, that's all in the past,'_ Groove said. _'We all know now. Let's focus on the important stuff - I wanna hear all about you and Slingshot, Blades!'_

That brought another confusing flood of emotions - amusement, curiosity, happiness, and worry.

_'Are..'_ First Aid hesitated. _'Are you sure this is a healthy situation? I'm sorry Blades, but I don't want to see either of you hurt.'_

_'We're not getting hurt,' _Blades snapped.

_'Blades,'_ Hot Spot said heavily. _'The way you talk to each other, and he was in the medbay this morning-'_

Oh frag, this was flat out mortifying. _'I fell! on him! Because he yanked on my rotorhub! Can we drop that already?'_

Embarrassment ran through the bond, until the tension was broken by Streetwise losing his composure, cracking up.

_'As long as you're alright,' _First Aid said finally, relieved. Hot Spot added wordless agreement, reaching out to touch Blades' shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Hot Spot said sincerely. "I should have known better."

Blades patted Hot Spot's hand. "S'alright."

Hot Spot smiled, giving his shoulder a squeeze before heading for the door.

Blades shook his head, and turned his comm to a familiar frequency. _"Hey, Birdy!"_

_"Whatcha want, Blenderbutt?" _Slingshot came back immediately.

_"Just had the weirdest conversation with my team. Apparently they've been convinced we've been fighting all this time._

_"Well, duh, dork. I know my team thinks we're tryin' to kill each other, and I like it that way."_

Frankly, Blades would never understand Aerialbot dynamics, and he'd given up trying to convince Slingshot to open up to his brothers. _"So why the frag didn't you tell __**me**__ they didn't know?"_

_"Hey, ain't my fault you got the short end of the processor stick. If they knew, I wouldn't be tellin' Aid to mind his own beeswax everytime I get a scratch, would I? It'd be 'Your fat-afted brother sat on me, take it up with him.'" _Slingshot paused. _"And if you try to apologize, I'm gonna feed you your tailfins."_

Blades coughed. _"I wasn't going to,"_ he lied. _"You deserved it, birdbrain. It was your fault, anyway."_

_"Fragger."_

_"Hopped-up biplane." _The insults were growled with a fierce sort of affection that, for once, he let his team feel.

_"Whirligig. Hey, you free? Finished my patrol report; I'm clear for the rest of the day."_

Blades grinned. _"My place, two breems. Unless you need directions...? I know you tweety-birds have short memories."_

_"Frag off, you miserable excuse for a ceiling fan. I'll be there, make sure you are."_

Laughing, Blades jogged toward his quarters.


	14. The Giant Purple Griffon Incident

"We're going to do _what?_" Swindle facepalmed. "Seriously? How the frag is this going to help?"

Onslaught scowled behind his battlemask. "We have our orders. I expect you to carry them out."

"Ons, our orders are _stupid._"

Onslaught forced his fists to unclench. "That is entirely beside the point, Swindle. We have our orders. You will take them seriously." He was perhaps even less happy about the plan than his subordinates, but arguing with Megatron was unwise when they were on good terms with the Decepticon leader, which they certainly were not.

"It's a giant purple griffin. How the frag can I take that seriously?"

_"Try,"_ he growled. "Vortex, stop laughing."

"I can't," the helicopter managed, before doubling up, giggling hysterically again. "I love this plan!"

Swindle stared at his snickering teammate, then back at Onslaught. "Yeah, tried. Failed again. Giant. Purple. Griffin."

"Uh..." Brawl raised a hand.

He was going to regret this. "Yes, Brawl?"

"Whazza griffin? Some sorta cannon? Fortification?"

Onslaught resisted the urge to facepalm. "No."

"See, it's this Earth thingy," Vortex said, slinging an arm over Brawl's shoulders, rotors quivering. "Organic thingamajig. It flies around."

"And shoots things?"

"Nope," Vortex answered cheerfully.

"... Recycles stuff into energon?"

"Nope!"

"Uh... transforms into somethin' that shoots stuff?"

"It doesn't do anything," Swindle growled. "It's a stupid mythological beast-" he sighed. "It's made up, Brawl. By humans. It doesn't _do anything._"

Vortex cracked up again. "That's why it's so perfect! It _doesn't do anything!_ See, it's this thingy that's like two squishies welded together, and it's perfect and useless!"

"Oh." Brawl still looked confused. "So why are we buildin' one? Why not just go weld two squishies together?"

Onslaught's engine growled. "We have our orders."

"Stupid orders," Swindle muttered. "Hey, why don't we ever just hold a city hostage?"

"Oh, that would be fun! Can we do that? Please?" Vortex wheedled. "Please please please?"

"It'd work better than this. 'Hey, humans! Give us energon or Onslaught blows up London. From here.' And if they want a demonstration, you nail part of New Jersey. No one likes Jersey anyway, so it's not useful as a hostage. We could keep it up for ages." Swindle grinned at Vortex.

"Get a rotatin' schedule goin'. Or we could make a wheel and spin it to see who we're threatenin' today," Vortex added, gleeful.

"What part of 'We have our orders' do you insubordinate glitches not understand?"

"The part where our orders _make no sense_." Swindle paused. "This is punishment, isn't it? I swear, try to kill a mech _once-_"

"Just shut the frag up and do it," Onslaught snarled.

Swindle held up his hands placating. "Hey, I'm just sayin'. C'mon, Tex, let's go find some... parts." He snickered. "Griffin parts."

"Right behind you, Stumps," Vortex said cheerfully, bobbing a rotor at Onslaught as he passed. "This is goin' to be great!"

Onslaught turned an irate glare towards his other two subordinates. "Do you two have a problem with our orders?" His tone said very clearly that having any problems would be immediately detrimental to their health.

Blast Off shrugged.

Brawl looked confused. "What _are_ our orders?"

Onslaught commended himself on the amount of restraint he showed in not strangling the tank. "Just go with Blast Off, do what he says."

"Oh. Okay. Why didn't you say that in the first place?"

He would not kill his team. Megatron wouldn't approve of the loss of Bruticus. He would _not_ kill his team...


	15. 2am Alarm

Rating: PG13  
Warning: Spinister has a flamethrower. He uses it.  
**tf_speedwriting** Prompt: #2 – Strange sounds at 2am.  
Summary: Sometimes, the strange sounds Red Alert hears in the middle of the night really ARE Decepticons breaking into the base.

x-x-x

The early hours of the morning were Red Alert's favorite time. The whole Ark was quiet, even the on duty mechs subdued. Trailbreaker in the commissary, getting his ration before coming on shift. Hoist and Windcharger in the command center, watching the monitors and seeming content to not talk. The prisoner in the brig as recharging, and Bumblebee... was playing tic tac toe on the guard station computer, but at least he was doing it quietly. Even Jazz, taking a stroll around the hanger, was keeping his humming on low volume.

Red Alert kept an optic on the cameras, and busied himself with all the security updates he wasn't able to get done with the interruptions of daytime activities.

He'd almost finished the new encryption algorithm when he heard it, a strange hissing that didn't come from the volcano. He frowned, looking toward the cameras. An error message came up – sensors in the hall near the now-dufunct engine were offline. A malfunction, or attack?

"_Red Alert to Trailbreaker – I just lost sensors outside the engine room. Please check it out before you come to the control room._"

On his screen, Trailbreaker tilted his head toward the commissary camera, and downed the rest of his ration. _"Will do, Red," _he said, with none of the impatience the request would have got from most of the crew members.

"_Thank you."_ He pulled up the nearest camera to the offline sensor. The hallway appeared clear; it hadn't been used since last time he'd performed maintenance on the security system there, and nothing seemed disturbed. The area hadn't fared well in the crash or time since, and rubble was strewn across the hallway. None of it seemed to have shifted. He backed up the footage to just before the sensor went out, and let it play.

At first, it seemed nothing was amiss. Then, a second after the sensor went down, a glow lit the hallway, appearing to originate from somewhere just out of frame. _What the..._

"_Reaching the hallway now, Red,"_ Trailbreaker broke in, over the comms. "_So far, looks..._" Trailbreaker's voice faltered. "_We have a problem. Something's melted through the wall here. Metal's still cooling."_

"_It's __**what**__?_" Even as he spoke, he was hitting the alarm. Across the ship, blast doors dropped, securing the vital areas of the Autobot base. Automated alarm tones sounded through the comm system, rousing the recharging mechs.

"_No sign of whatever did it,_" Trailbreaker added.

"_Prowl to Red Alert – What's going on?_"

"_We have a breech._" Red Alert said shortly. "_Unknown intruders._"

"_Where?_" Prowl sounded immediately alert.

"_Unknown,_" Red Alert said. "_ Sensors went out near the engine, and Trailbreaker discovered a melted-out section of hull, but no sign of the perpetrator."_

"_On my way,_" Prowl said. "_Trailbreaker, stay there but keep your optics on. I'm sending Smokescreen and Ironhide to you."_

"_Understood,_" Trailbreaker said easily. On the monitor, Red Alert could just barely make out the shimmer of the edge of a forcefield.

Nearly a local hour later, they were no closer to finding the intruder. The alarms quieted, but Red Alert refused to give up searching, scanning through every sensor in the Ark. The rest of the Autobot officers currently on base had converged on the security center, with the exception of Trailbreaker, who was keeping an optic on the melted-out hull in case the perpetrator circled back.

"Are we sure it wasn't a blowout from the old engine?" Ratchet asked, slumping in a chair.

Wheeljack hummed thoughtfully. "It's possible; the engine core's still active, after all. I'd haveta take a look to see."

"No," Ironhide said. "Wasn't no explosion. No shrapnel, no seismic disturbance, no blast pattern. Whole wall just melted through. I'd say flamethrower, high-heat."

"We have searched the entire ship," Prowl pointed out. "The likelihood of an intruder evading the search pattern is astronomically low."

Red Alert resisted the urge to tell Prowl where he could put his "Astronomically low". "What's the likelihood of someone _melting their way in_ and then simply leaving?"

Smokescreen gave Red Alert an apologetic look, opening his mouth-

The alarms went off again, registering a massive heat spike.

"What's happening?" Prowl asked.

"Forget that, where?" Ironhide demanded, coming to his feet.

"Brig." Red Alert brought up the cameras – the brig was one of the most secure and most surveillance area in the Ark, protected by heavy blast doors that should hold up against nearly any hand-held or integrated weapon short of Megatron's fusion cannon.

The first camera he pulled up showed a bubbling mess where the blast doors should be.

"Primus," Ratchet whispered.

_"Bumblebee, what's your situation?"_ Red Alert switched between cameras, trying to find an angle that showed their attacker.

"_Holy Frag! Red, someone's just took out the door, but I can't see-"_ The transmission cut out a squeal of static. In the security center, the cameras went dark.

"_Bee!_" Ratchet lunged to his feet and would have rushed out the door if Jazz hadn't grabbed his arm.

"Easy there, doc," Jazz cautioned. "I got a feelin' we're gonna need you intact when this is over." Jazz looked at the others. "C'mon, we'll plan on the run," he said. "Red, get the cameras back and keep us updated." Jazz didn't wait for the acknowledgment before taking off for the brig, Prowl and Smokescreen right behind him.

"Frag it!" Ratchet paced the length of the security center, frustrated.

"Getting yourself killed isn't going to help Bumblebee," Red Alert said, focused on the cameras. It didn't seem to be anything he could fix from here – the best he could do is pull up the next set, further down the corridor. In the main monitor, he brought up the last footage from the disabled brig cameras, cycling through frame by frame. Maybe they'd caught _something_ that would help...

There. He paused the footage. Not much, just a blurred edge of something, a smear of color in a smoke-choked room.

"What's that?" Ratchet leaned over his shoulder, frowning. The color was a garish pink that _should_ have caught the gaze and attracted attention. It reminded Red Alert of spilled energon and fire.

"Frag," Red Alert said roughly. _"Jazz, Prowl, be careful! It's Spinister!"_

"_Aw, hell,_" Ironhide said. "_Fragging Mayhems. Where's the Wreckers when you need them?"_

_"Who is Spinister?" _Smokescreen asked, confused.

"_Decepticon assassin, carries a flamethrower that tends to turn people into puddles,"_ Jazz responded grimly. _"Be careful, he's not going to let himself be cornered._"

"_At the brig,_" Ironhide said. "_I'm goin' in._"

"_We're right behind you._" Jazz passed under the last functioning camera and into the brig corridor, out of the camera view. For a long, nerve-wracking moment, there was nothing. Then, "_Brig's clear. Ratchet, get down here."_

"_Status?_" Red Alert demanded, as Ratchet darted out the door.

"_No sign of Spinister or the prisoner,"_ Prowl answered. "_Bumblebee is..._" The tactician hesitated, something that did nothing for Red Alert's peace of mind. "_He's alive,_" Prowl finished. "_It would appear he managed to use the guard station for cover with some success._"

"_How did he get out past the cameras?"_ Trailbreaker asked.

"_How does he get anywhere?"_ Red Alert muttered. "_Keep your forcefield up. He might be headed your way._"

"_Got it._ Trailbreaker paused. "_Hang on, I think I heard something- _"

This time, the camera was in perfect position to catch the flame hitting Trailbreaker, filling the screen with bright light, then static. "_Trailbreaker!_"

"_I'm alright,_ Trailbreaker said, strained. "_Other than having bits of wall drip on me, I'm okay. Forcefields held._"

_"Where's Spinister?" _

_"Gone. I'm sorry," _Trailbreaker said. _"I barely saw him, and then he was gone again. Think they've escaped. ..What about Bumblebee?_"

_"He'll live,"_ Ratchet said shortly. _"I can't say much more than that."_

_"No one's dead, I'd count it as a win," _Jazz advised.

_"Even so, I want patrols in the halls until we can be absolutely certain they're no longer on the base," _Prowl ordered. _"Red Alert, get that hole secured."_


End file.
